Page 46 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

"Nobody knows how at first," she said, gentler now.

"But you know what not to do. You know what it feels like to be the child of someone who resents their choices. That's a powerful compass, Sav. One thing your mother never had."

She was right, of course. As terrified as I was, I could never treat a child the way I'd been treated—as an inconvenience, a complication, a barrier to the life my mother believed she should have had.

"I need to tell him," I said finally. "Tonight."

"Yes, you do." Zoe squeezed my hand. "And then you need to listen—really listen—to what he says. Not what you're afraid he'll say. Not what your mother would have said. What Lucas actually says."

The distinction felt important. I'd been projecting fears onto Lucas that belonged to my parents, to my past. Had been assuming his reaction based on my own anxieties rather than the man I'd come to know.

"I'm terrified," I admitted.

"Good," Zoe said, surprising me. "Terror means it matters. Means it's real."

My own words to Lucas, months ago, are now coming back to me when I needed them most.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of meetings and decisions made on autopilot.

By six, I'd reached my limit, cancelling the charity event with a text to Zoe and heading home to the penthouse.

I needed space. Needed to prepare.

Needed to find words for the conversation that would change everything.

I changed into leggings and one of Lucas's sweaters, the cashmere soft against my skin, his scent lingering in the fabric. Cocooned in his essence, I curled on the sofa, watching the city lights emerge as darkness fell.

My hand drifted to my stomach repeatedly, trying to connect with the reality growing inside me.

Our child. Half me, half Lucas.

A perfect, terrifying convergence of two people who'd never expected to find each other, let alone create life together.

When the elevator chimed at nine-fifteen, I was still in the same position, though I'd migrated from shock to something closer to acceptance.

Not peace, exactly, but readiness to face whatever came next.

Lucas appeared, shedding his coat and briefcase by the door in a rare display of domestic casualness. His gaze found me immediately, assessing, cataloging the changes since morning.

"You canceled your event," he said, moving toward me with that purposeful stride. Not a question but a statement.

"Yes." I uncurled from the sofa, standing to meet him halfway.

"We need to talk."

Something flickered in his expression—wariness, concern, a flash of what might have been fear before his usual control reasserted itself. "I'm listening."

This was it. The moment. No more hiding, no more deflecting, no more half-truths or strategic omissions.

"I'm pregnant," I said, the words emerging with surprising steadiness considering the chaos they'd created inside me all day.

For a moment, Lucas went completely still, his expression unreadable.

Then, very deliberately, he closed the distance between us, one hand coming to rest at the small of my back, the other lifting to my face.

"Say that again," he commanded softly, eyes never leaving mine.

"I'm pregnant." My voice trembled slightly this time.

"About six weeks, I think."

Something transformed in his expression then—control giving way to an emotion so raw, so unguarded, it took my breath away.

His hand moved from my back to my stomach, spreading wide across the flat plane as if he could feel the microscopic changes already happening beneath.

"Mine," he said, the word emerging rough, possessive, almost primitive in its simplicity.

"Yes," I confirmed, watching his reaction carefully, trying to read past the initial response to what lay beneath.

"Yours. Ours."

His gaze returned to my face, searching, assessing. "

You're afraid," he observed, missing nothing as always.

"Terrified," I admitted, the honesty costing less than I'd expected.

"This changes everything, Lucas."

"Yes," he agreed, his hand still splayed protectively across my abdomen. "It does."

I waited for more—for the calculations, the strategies, the careful plans he would undoubtedly begin formulating immediately.

Instead, he pulled me against him, arms encircling me with unexpected gentleness.

"Good," he whispered against my hair, the single syllable vibrating through me.

"Now you'll never leave."

The statement—so possessive, so sure, so quintessentially Lucas—should have triggered alarm bells. It should have confirmed my fears about control and independence and all the complications we'd navigated these past months.

Instead, I heard what lay beneath the surface, what he wasn't quite saying but meant with every fiber of his being: I want this. I want you. I want us. Permanently, irrevocably, completely.

"Is that what you're afraid of?" I asked, pulling back slightly to see his face. "That I'd leave?"

Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes—a rare glimpse beneath the controlled exterior he presented to the world.

"Everyone leaves, Savannah. My mother. Catherine. Every significant connection I've ever formed."

"Not me," I said, the certainty in my voice surprising us both. "Not us."

His hand returned to my stomach, a gesture both possessive and reverent. "Our child," he said, testing the words as if measuring their weight, their reality.

"A life we created together."

"Yes." I covered his hand with mine, watching the emotions play across his features—pride, wonder, a flash of something that might have been fear before determination replaced it.

"Are you happy about this?" I asked, needing to hear the words directly, not implied or assumed.

"Happy doesn't begin to cover it." His voice had deepened, roughened with emotion he rarely displayed. "I never thought I'd have this again—a second chance at family, at connection, at creating something that matters beyond buildings and acquisitions."

The honesty in his words, the vulnerability in his expression, broke something open inside me—the last barrier of fear I'd been holding against this unexpected future.

"I don't know how to do this," I confessed, echoing my words to Zoe earlier.

"I don't know how to be a mother when mine was... distant. Cold. Resentful of the life she felt trapped in."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. This wasn't just about pregnancy, about our relationship, about the practicalities of merging two independent lives more completely. This was about ghosts. About patterns. About fears of becoming people we'd spent lifetimes trying not to be.

"You are not your mother, Savannah," he said, echoing Zoe with uncanny precision. "Just as I am not my father—at least, not the man he was during my childhood."

"But what if?—"

"No." He cut me off gently but firmly. "We make our own choices. Create our own patterns. Build something that bears no resemblance to the damage we inherited."

The confidence in his voice, the certainty in his expression—these weren't signs of controlling behavior but of absolute faith. In me. In us. In our capacity to break cycles rather than repeat them.

"I'm still scared," I admitted, needing him to understand the complexity of my feelings. "Not just of repeating patterns, but of how a child changes us. Changes what we've built. Changes the independence I've fought so hard to maintain."

He nodded, absorbing this. "Your independence matters to me, Savannah. Your career. Your sense of self beyond our relationship. Those things don't disappear with motherhood."

"Don't they?" I challenged gently, needing honesty more than reassurance. "A baby creates dependencies. Limitations. Compromises I'm not sure I'm ready for."

"Then we'll find solutions together," he said. "The way we've navigated every other challenge. Not with me imposing control or you maintaining distance, but with genuine partnership."

The reasonableness of his response, the absence of the domineering reaction I'd feared, loosened something tight in my chest. This wasn't the Lucas Turner who had commanded my body with such confident authority that first night.

This was the man who had grown, adapted, and learned to balance his need for control with respect for my autonomy.

"When I said you'll never leave," he continued, a wry smile touching his lips, "I didn't mean it as a trap, though I see now how it sounded.

I meant... this makes us family, Savannah.

Not just lovers or partners or whatever careful label we've been using.

Family. Permanent. Connected in ways that transcend any other relationship. "

The word—family hung between us, weighted with all it represented. All we'd both lacked. All we now had the chance to create.

"Family," I repeated, testing it the way he'd tested 'our child' moments before. "I like that."

He pulled me closer, one hand tangling in my hair as he tilted my face to his.

"I love you," he said, the words no longer foreign on his tongue.

"Not because you're carrying my child. Not because this represents some primitive claim or possession. But because you've seen the worst of me and stayed anyway. Because you've challenged me to be better than I thought possible. Because you make me feel like more than the sum of my achievements."

The raw honesty in his voice, the rare vulnerability in his expression, sent warmth unfurling through me, displacing fear with something that felt dangerously like hope.

"I love you too," I whispered, rising on tiptoe to press my lips to his. "Enough to believe we can do this. It can be better than what we came from. We can create something beautiful together."

He lifted me then, one fluid movement that still caught me by surprise despite how often he'd done it. There was something primal about his strength, about the ease with which he could move me—something that would have threatened my independence once but now sent heat spiraling through my veins.

"Lucas," I gasped as he carried me to the bedroom, "the dinner we skipped?—"